Dead Man's Puppet
by ShayneScribbler
Summary: AU where the world has been changed due to nuclear warfare. Alfred ponders on his own decisions and insanity, seeking warmth, redemption, and answers from a ghost of his past. RusAme; rated for character death, mentioned violence, and mental instability.


A/N: just posting something older that I wrote for the kink meme a while back. I promise that the next chapter for Not Every Dynasty is in progress right now. Just so people know 9if you don't frequent my profile page) I'm pretty active on lj. Link to my journal is in my profile and there's a few works up there that aren't here yet, though i'm doing my best to get everything up on both sites.

Warnings: character death, mentions of violence, mental instability

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><p><strong><span>Dead Man's Puppet<span>**

The evening was cooler than it should be for the time of year. Or maybe it was warm and Alfred just couldn't feel it anymore. It was hard to separate what was real from what was imagined these days. He wondered if, ten years ago, he had been granted a glimpse of this future if he would still have chosen to push the button. It had made sense when he'd done it. His scientists had developed a new ICBM, one with a system that made it undetectable to current missile warning systems in other countries. At the time, tensions with Russia had been rising again, people had started calling it the second Cold War. Why not test the missiles on Russia? It would solve two problems at once. Put America back up at the top of the pile and decimate a recurring threat.

He hadn't expected it to work so well.

As Alfred stared out at the darkening sky outside his bedroom window, he wished that Russia still existed; he wished Ivan was still at the meetings, even if he tended to insult every idea America proposed; he wished that the other countries still reserved their fear for that pale, northern nation instead of gazing at him in terrified awe and avoiding his presence altogether. He never saw anyone outside of meetings anymore, not even his brother, Canada...not even England.

A shiver past through his body as he lay on his stomach, thoughts eating away at his mind. Maybe this was how Russia had always felt – people avoiding him, his home always cold and empty, dusty and echoing with the memories of the past. Alfred would have to ask him.

Laughing hollowly, Alfred wondered when he'd gone insane. Probably when the missiles had hit. Or maybe it had been in the minutes following, when Russia had died and the land had become Alfred's and he could suddenly feel the piercing cold of Siberia, the icy reaches of the Arctic. Could feel the ravaged landscape and dying people and the ugly, sickening crawl of radiation over his skin, under his skin, in his soul. Even as he shivered, Alfred removed his shirt. He would be warm enough soon. The sky was almost completely dark, night almost fully covering the land, and Alfred knew that *he* would come, always without fail.

As he waited in the darkness of his room, he wondered if anyone else was haunted by the ghosts of nations they had killed. Maybe that was what England's faeries really were and the man wasn't as insane as everyone thought he was. Or maybe England was just as insane as Alfred, but with ghosts that were more forgiving...because he had killed them for better reasons than a spur of the moment whim. Alfred wondered if other nations could see the empty faces of dead citizens in their windows, staring back listlessly from the blackness outside. He wondered if the others thought they looked like a collection of porcelain dolls, all lined up neatly in rows and staring with glassy eyes and expressionless faces, unchanging forever.

Night finally came and Alfred felt the pull of strings that weren't there, tying him like a puppet to its master to the not-weight that settled over his hips. He didn't have to turn around to know that a tall pale man had appeared over him, straddling him in the dark of his room. Alfred ignored the other, still lost in his own thoughts. He now wondered whether it was Ivan's continued presence, or lack thereof, that kept other nations away from his house. He thought he remembered once, just days after Russia had fallen, England coming to check on him. England had not stayed long, closing the door of the bedroom and bolting from the house almost as soon as he had arrived. Alfred still didn't know if it was because he could see the figure looming over Alfred's prone form, or whether it was that he couldn't see the other man that had put the look of fear into England's eyes.

"Ivan?" Alfred finally murmured, a question hovering in his voice as he glanced back over his shoulder at the man watching him passively. He wondered if all ghost appeared quite so solid to those who could see them, or if Ivan was just special. Were all ghosts as warm to the touch...could other ghosts even *be* touched?

"Yes, little America?" The voice was the normal calm, smooth tone that the man had used in life.

"If I remake Russia, make it a country again," Alfred hesitated a moment. "Would...would you come back?"

"No, little flower," Ivan murmured, hands tracing soothing circles over Alfred's back. "A new nation would be born, a different Russia."

Alfred nodded in acceptance and relaxed once more into the sheets, humming in contentment as the touches on his back warmed his skin. It was as if, when Russia had become just another part of America, the warmth Alfred used to feel had died too, existing only when Ivan was with him. The touches became firmer, the intent behind them shifting from comfort to something hotter. And Alfred let it, submitted to the warm not-presence above him. It was only when Ivan's ghostly body covered his, wrapped him in warmth and took him completely, that Alfred could feel even an ounce of forgiveness for himself.

Hours and weeks and years later, when Alfred was basking in warmth and after-glow, body curled and tangled with Ivan's, he wished that Ivan were more like England's faeries – that he existed for more than a few precious hours every night. He wished Ivan would stay with him and then maybe, just maybe, the loneliness wouldn't eat at him so.

Ivan shifted gently, careful not to upset the nation still wrapped around him, and Alfred smiled at the caring gesture. A flare of light filled the room, followed closely by the smell of a cheap Soviet cigarette. A scent Alfred only smelled at night, in moments like these, when he could pretend that the last decade had never happened and that Ivan was lying beside him as the Russian Federation, alive and well.

As the sky lightened towards a predawn grey, Alfred felt the spot in the bed next to him start to cool, the warm arms wrapped around him begin to fade away. Unlike any other previous morning, this time Alfred felt icy tears begin to trail down his cheeks. Soft lips, a remaining shadow of warmth, kissed away the salty drops.

"Do not worry," Ivan's soft voice echoed slightly, as if an invisible wind was whipping it away. "You are not alone. I will never leave you, America. We are one now."

Alfred felt the presence fade entirely and his tears came quicker, even as he rose from the bed to ready himself for another day of meetings, fearful glances, and isolation. He smiled through the tears now, though, even let some joyful laughter filter past his lips.

He could never be alone.

He was one with Russia.

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><p>the prompt for this fic was a picture that can be found at http :  www . pixiv . net/member_?mode=medium&illust_id=9126006


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